A House Fit For Two
by DEUTALiA
Summary: Ian didn't stick around to see what it'd mean to Arthur. And if he had the right to leave, so did Arthur. So he did. And left the keys, as he said he would. Ian let himself in that night, and slept alone. (Mpreg and mentions of mpreg, ScotIggy/Scotland x England, AU, may continue with various other pairings. For Liz. Ich liebe dich, schatz.)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: My first time writing for Scottie :)**  
**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**  
**S/N: Will contain ScotIggy and (likely) various other pairings if continued.**

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Arthur damned everything in that instant; the tears on the brim of his tired eyelids threatening to spill at any tedious moment over his flushed cheeks with some patronizing symbolism of the giant mess he was, had been, and what he had become in the ironic long-run of his life of twenty-four years young. His mind was tired, his body was tired; in a context waning in abstraction, but abstract all the same, rather than something that felt much more tangible to him; in a context that would, for as long as he were to remain conscious enough for it to boggle his mind as it was, remind him again that, despite it being his precise intention, no amount or duration of distracting himself with doing chores around the house would give him that whole-hearted solace he could only briefly mourn over when the thought would cross his mind: in escaping reality, in all her buxom and sociopathic ways.

Look on a brighter side, why shouldn't he.

There was nothing - absolutely nothing - bright about this night. Not in the slightest. What _he _was going through - what he had _been _going through, for the past few weeks (months really up until he'd come to indulge in right-on-schedule frequent vomiting, spontaneous stomach aches and dry skin) didn't even matter. Even now as he stood over the sink in the kitchen Ian had mostly constructed himself with applied furnishings and wooden cabinets, Arthur asked himself if the reason he was upset had spurted because he felt ignored; abandoned; neglected.

All very logical, but no. And then he thought of it: What was still simmering within him most was that _despite_ being _just_ as befuddled and ultimately thrown for it all, was that Ian had, in more ways than one in such a short amount of time, thrown him to the dogs. And the more Arthur ran it over in his head, eventually reasoning came to permanence. It made a lot of sense. And then he thought more to himself, with this sour and bitter taste in his mouth, _I should have seen this coming. I really ought to have. What was I expecting?_

Because Ian had made him feel so disgusting in a matter of seconds, pacing and flustering and panicking and then yelling, and then leaving almost two hours ago - leaving _him _here, by himself, alone, as if to say with some paraphrased malice and removal of a proper recipient: Well, the first thing you should work on is not panicking. Break the news gently to yourself. Be frank, but not hostile, or demanding. Think things over, and what you'd like to do. If it's not in you to do it alone, you're not at all by any means obligated to keep it. Abortion is always an option, though one that's subject to change in physical development.

Ian had done this; outright, Arthur thought, as he massaged his only slightly swollen abdomen with a wet, sudsy hand underneath his night-shirt. It took longer than expected to finish the dishes (but it had worked out in his favor more or less anyway, all things considered. It was enough at least for him to stay mostly distracted from indisputable thoughts of this all very new and alive 'life' growing inside him, and the singular event among many he couldn't count on all his fingers and toes that led to this predicament - which he could only assume to be an absolute misfortune considering Ian's just p and leaving.

That night, just that one (he remembered it all so vividly), his entire being seemed to cling to Ian, as if he would fall through some timeless pit beneath the two of them if he were to let go of Ian, and if Ian were to let go of him. His long, slender, hairless legs much too feminine for a man were wrapped snug around Ian's waist, the Scotsman's toned abs rubbing against his own stomach (completely flat at the time with neither hide nor hair of a growing fetus, unlike now) with indescribable cadence that was threatening to push him far beyond an exceeding edge.

His breaths would come out in curt, labored pants, hicks and blatant euphoric cries as Ian seemed to assault him internally in _only _the right places. And so amazing did it feel that tears of absolute exhaustion mixed with the quaking desire to impale his hips ever harder to meet the taller man's rhythmic thrusts were spilling over his flushed cheeks for God knows how long. They had been going at it for an approaching two hours, his cock sore and pulsating on his abdomen with the continuous amount of cum Ian was milking his precious balls for, and likely would continue to do. Arthur had readily given in to the torture, with little resistance. So when the thrusting paused, for the briefest moment, he thought he'd lose it; already so close again to shooting the newest pressure of post-orgasmic zest over his and Ian's respective shares of sweaty flesh. His writhing was near instantaneous as he made due with glowering (poorly) up at the Scotsman, demanding a reasonable explanation for why the provocative abuse against his prostate had stopped, especially considering why no matter his own attempts to jump-start things again himself by grinding his hips needily into the pulsating organ inside him couldn't do half the sufficiency.

And the tears seemed to come harder as he growled, pushing back harder against the Scotsman's lovely and large cock, and still missing his prostate overwhelmingly by only what he could guesstimate to be teasing centimeters or smaller inches doing it by himself.

"Uhn, why would you stop?" He was on the verge of sobbing now, and only just now, presently, would he wonder if he looked, sounded, like some typical whore when he'd said that.

Ian had stared at him for a given six seconds, before wiping at his tears with a calloused thumb-pad. Arthur could feel his exhales through his nose clearly within their proximity against his face as Ian pressed their lips together slowly, sensually; something that lasted almost ten lengthy seconds before Arthur was staring back into similar emerald eyes at a small upward distance, taking in the slick perspiration that drew and stuck choppy auburn locks to the Scotsman's forehead. Ian had to ask him twice before he was able to shake the stupor from his conscious to answer his question:

"Have Ah been hurtin' ye?"

"W...wha?"

"Thought yew were cryin' 'cause Ah was makin' ye feel good. Em Ah hurtin' ye? Honestly, be serious."

He stared a bit, before he'd wrapped his arms around the latter's neck, panting again with just the effort as he'd said, while rolling his hips slowly against the shaft still buried to a substantial depth inside him, to emphasize, "N-no, love. It doesn't hurt. Ngh~ Keep... going, please?"

And likeso, things had continued, Ian's thrusts duplicated in both solidity and speed if anything then, Arthur's creamy thighs spread wanton on either side of him as his body was quite literally pounded into with restless abandon and rationale that would come to question - somewhere in the deepest subconscious of his mind that _wasn't_ succumbing to the physical properties of rough sex - just how positive he was that he was still being fucked by a gorgeously chiselled Scotsman with tireless libido, and not some animal dead-set and driven by pure instinct to simply breed his tight ass until he was guaranteed absolutely no feeling in his legs and hips by the end of it all.

And suddenly, Arthur's inhales were just as rugged as his panting, in that taking _in _air had come around way of accomplishment through inward hissing as he pumped himself erratically between Ian and himself, his pinkie-finger occasionally brushing the slightest bit of skin on the older man's engorged cock from where it was still furiously entering and leaving his entrance below his taut balls. By now he could feel the latter's warm precum leaking timely out of him the closer the Scotsman was undoubtedly coming to join him in both Arthur's third and last climax, and Ian's first.

No words were exchanged. There couldn't have been if they'd wanted, tried. Arthur's back remained in a sharp arch as his voice would dip and pitch with each rope that would shoot from his own aching cock still grasped to preferred firmness in his fist, while Ian remained quiet save a few grunts that followed his own orgasm; his pelvis entombed tightly between Arthur's porcelain thighs as he spilt his own ropes of cum within his depth of the blonde, relishing in the idle clenching and unclenching Arthur was purposely doing around cock, gradually reducing to softening the faster his high died.

In brief, the sex had been amazing. More than that, if Arthur could care to find the proper word for it. And they'd enjoyed it. So of course neither of them thought much of reality, in that they hadn't used the _least _bit of protection that night next to any. Because it's something you make light of after experiencing something phenomenal or rare, isn't it?

"I'll bet on your sorry fucking life you're out drinking somewhere, like a coward! Cooped up around the only things you can be comfortable with! Failures who waste their lives away sitting on a bloody _bar stool!_ That's the only life you can be happy with I see. I see that now. Thank you for outright fucking _saying _so too, you fucking twat! Insensitive prick! I'll leave you to the house-keys. I'm staying over at Francis' tonight. Don't even bloody fucking _bother _calling me!"

But it isn't. Because while just the idea of having a baby is terrifying in a sense for anyone, well, Ian had been too stubborn to wait and see what it would mean for Arthur. And if Ian had some given right to leave not before dumping it all over his shoulders, Arthur had just as much a right to rightly pack a small amount of necessities, as he said he would, before leaving himself. And yes, while it's not very mature, well he'd rather have left anyhow than to wait on Ian after he'd so bluntly walked out on him. He wouldn't give strangers, friends, family, the chance to look at him and say things like, "Poor soul", and "He'll come around." Because they were only odds. Because Ian 'coming to his senses' was hardly his biggest concern.

And he's still unsure what that means, and what it meant to him when he thought it. But he did get up. And he did leave. And when Ian checked his voicemail after some fishing around in his pockets for his cell phone hours later on his way back home, the keys were there, just like Arthur said he'd leave them; under the mat for him. Ian had wordlessly let himself in that night, and went to bed.

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**Now that I think about it, I think I'd like to dedicate this to my waifu-kawaii-boyfriend Liz :) She's way more into the ScotIggy thing than I am. I just wrote this on a whim anyway. Had no idea it was gonna turn into this, but whatever. I hope Ian's accent is at least slightly legible. I really thought about not using it, but I wanted to give it a shot anyway. I dunno if there'll be a continuation of this or not, so for now I'll put it under complete. It could very well be subject to updates though if I get more ideas though.**

_**Mach's gut! Tschus!**_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: A few tracks from Delta Spirit were moving (in the least) to push me to do some... extra stuff for this. I'm still not sure how far this'll go, but I'm filling this in anyway. I've noticed the favorites and follows too by the way. As pessimistic as I am, I'll say thank you anyway. Didn't think this would get so much attention.**

**Hetalia isn't mine.**

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"Christ, no. No, I could never hate him. Give me _some_ credit, will you; I'm a sensible person when I'd like to be."

Francis' retort was otherwise silent; Ian (topic of conversation), willingly dying for the both of them after the Frenchman's original approach at alleviating some of the latter's stress by discussing the epitome of why Arthur had opted to spend time away from home so suddenly in the first place.

Coarse eyebrows narrowed as Arthur stared idly into the steamy reflective surface of the tea in his lap. Cheap stuff; and nothing near as refreshing as Earl Grey. Hardly anything to complain about though after Francis' initial genuine and modest way of serving him when he _did _bring it up: ("_If you require some'zing fancier per'aps you would be reasonable enough to put your __own_ _savings up for trivial necessities, since I'm already being nice enough to lend you ze stay of my 'ome, __wiz'out_ _pay; as we are good friends, yes?"_) - to which Arthur's reluctant retort was that, whatever, fine, he'd drink the damn tea, even if the bloody cheap stuff was twice another sip away from being set (tossed) aside, because really he'd had sugared water that tastes better than this.

Fun aside, really, a half decent beverage (or less) was hardly the worst to get worked up over. Unbeknownst to himself, Arthur's expression took on a more rancid gazing, before softening seemingly exhausted in comparison, his palms idly rotating the teacup in thoughtless, repetitive patterns; left then right; right then left if the latter was as uninteresting after an amount of seconds. All the same for about a minute, even after he sulked lower against the decorative throw-pillows among the love-seat Francis had been hospitable enough to let him use for a sufficient place to sleep the past few days. (He'd predictably chosen the alternative to the Frenchman's proposal of 'platonically' sharing a bed together, and next to that, a confined piece of furniture to sleep on seemed safest anyhow.)

"Finish your tea."

He looks up, catching the tail-end of a lessening smirk on Francis' face from his usual perched spot in front of his desktop, his own cup of the stuff in hand, raised slightly for emphasis.

"You will feel better. Take your mind off of things."

Arthur sighs, a conceited smile of his own forming as he decidedly gets up this time, headed for the kitchen. "Awfully consistent to poison me, dullard." He snickers, barely missing a beat in time to turn around and catch a developed, sarcastic pout on the Frenchman's face as he downs the other half of the mediocre stuff down the kitchen sink, smug.

"Poison you, ah?"

"I'll say." His arms fold over his chest as he comes to stand behind the latter, pretending to be interested the many collectibles among the room's tallest entertainment stand in the spacious living room, only bluntly easing forward just barely over Francis' shoulder to steal a critical view of the progress onscreen.

"I don't suppose you'd be playful enough to work on this in English some time when I'm around," He smiles. "So I can find reasons to give you proper friendly critique on spelling and grammatical erros, plot-holes. I'm only asking."

"It goes to Paris _first,ami. _If I'm going to be zhis universal novelist one of zhese days, I may as well be writing in a language I'm most fluent in. " The pair of the Frenchman's eyebrows raise amusedly in his reflection on the screen as he idly sips more of the previously abandoned tea from his cup sat furthest from the computer-mouse.

"So it does." Arthur straightens, one of his hands freezing mid-way to his stomach. He blinks, thankful Francis' cell had began to vibrate (and via incoming call, better) seconds before he'd have been caught in the act out of Francis' habit of rotating in the computer chair.

Thrice he'd been caught by the perplexed Frenchman in the midst of absentmindedly stroking his... bloatedness, within the week he'd been in the apartment. Thankfully some timely diversion would save him from having to explain things - or at least had coincidentally those times before and now. For whatever reason though (stress?) he was getting clumsier, doing it almost constantly when thoughts of Ian would come up in his spare-time and then some. He still hadn't told Francis the bigger part of why he'd even left those few nights ago and come here; the gist just being - though not a complete lie - that he and the Scotsman needed some agreeable time apart.

If there is a clear and advisable way to explain to someone that you've been - you _are_ - knocked up, by your fiancée of four months (a recent walk-out on the situation also), whom decided that things were much too complicated to balance, if only for a few bloody seconds (honestly, you're not _that _pregnant yet), instead decidedly preferring to drink the rest of that night away to himself without so much as a call the next day - Arthur would gladly appreciate the counsel.

Otherwise,

"Am I still not to answer if Ian calls? Zhis is 'im ringing now, _ami_."

"No. Just let it go to voicemail, thanks."

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**A/N: It's not the best I could've done. But that's all I'm willing to write for so little time left before morning (when it actually starts to lighten outside) xD You guys can thank yourselves and Delta Spirit for this. I'm renaming this fic to A House Fit For Two after listening to so much of them tonight. So there'll be a change there. I hope this is satisfying, for what the indecisive length of this fic is worth anyway. And thanks for all the faves and follows again!**

[French]: _Ami_ = (Male) Friend

**I think that's all for vocab, unless I missed any. I used pretty basic French though, so it shouldn't be much to worry about.**


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